


Love Always Waits

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Withdrawal, John lost inside himself, M/M, Protective Sherlock, Soft and gentle ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 07:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14350764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: The darkness comes for John.





	Love Always Waits

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my dark 2017 NaNoWriMo. 
> 
> Hoping that with the spring, if it ever arrives here in Maine, I will find my muse in a happier place.

He feels it in the air, vibrating, as it steals over the small body. He watches. He sees the downturned mouth, the clenching and unclenching of fisted hands. And he grieves as the brightness disappears from the blue eyes he loves more than his own life.

It always seeks a moment when John’s guard is down, and when it discovers an entry point and slithers inside, the pain it causes for both of them is bone-marrow deep. It happens less often now, a year past, and, it rarely lingers more than a day, but this occurrence is different. 

John tries to hide it. He always tries to hide it. And that John knows he can’t hide it, but still tries, to protect, makes Sherlock love him all the more.

It’s the withdrawal that hurts Sherlock most, because he knows he is to blame. John’s long ago forgiven, but the memory of it still lingers like a bogeyman ready to rise up and bury them in its path.

Sherlock watches and waits. The process is nearly the same each time. John wanders, in total silence, looking at and touching items scattered around the flat, lovingly caressing the violin. He peers out each window in the sitting room. He stands at the mantel over the fireplace and fingers the skull. As though lost and alone, John eventually wanders away, and turns toward their bedroom.

After a moment, Sherlock follows and waits in the doorway. He watches John drop to the edge of the bed. Lowering his head, he goes still, as though in a trance, and stares at the floor.

Whether John is aware of his presence, Sherlock can not tell at this moment. Finally, after several long minutes of silence, John lifts his head and turns toward Sherlock. Their gazes meet; Sherlock pads barefoot across the hardwood floor, and sits next to him, his hip and thigh pressing firmly against John’s.

John’s breathing is rapid and shallow, Sherlock notices, and as the panic courses through his small body, John begins to tremble. This is the moment, and Sherlock responds without hesitation. He lays his right arm and hand around John’s shoulders. John immediately turns toward and into Sherlock’s body. Sherlock guides him onto his lap, John’s shorter legs bent at the knee and straddling his thighs. He wraps his other arm around John’s back, holding him close. John hooks his chin over Sherlock’s shoulder and just breathes, his arms pinned at his sides by Sherlock’s firm embrace.

It is longer this time than last that the trembling grips his love’s body. Several times it eases and then returns with a vengeance. At his shoulder, Sherlock’s shirt is soaked through to the skin with John’s silent tears.

Ten, then fifteen minutes pass. Finally, Sherlock can no longer allow this to continue to hurt his John. He places his strong, elegant hands under John’s thighs and stands. In one graceful movement, Sherlock settles John on their bed. He slowly, gently, moves over John, pressing his long, thin body on top the smaller one.

Blue eyes now nearly black, swimming with tears, yet filled with what Sherlock knows is trust, watch him. Sherlock laces his fingers with John’s, pinning his hands against the pillow on each side of John’s head.

Slowly, Sherlock lowers his head toward John, capturing his mouth with his own. He rests his head partly on John’s shoulder and partly on the pillow and waits. John soon turns his head so their mouths are just touching.

“Breathe, John. Breathe with me.”

The blue eyes fill once more as he struggles to fall into rhythm with Sherlock’s slow, steady breathing. Neither looks away, accepting and giving calming breaths. When John’s heartbeat slows and the trembling finally dissipates, they lay silently, simply gazing into each other’s eyes.

With his lips still touching John’s, Sherlock kisses him gently. “John...I will apologize as many times as you need to hear. I’m sorry for that day. I would never intentionally do anything to hurt you.”

A single tear slips out and drops onto the pillow.

“I forgive you,” John whispers.

“I know, John. You always do. But every now and then you are reminded and it hurts you. One day you will forget to hurt.”

“Sherlock....”

Sherlock always knows. “It’s all right, John.” He knows John needs to be reassured every now and then. He needs to know that Sherlock is there for him. And that day will never repeat itself.

“I’m sorry...it’s just that....”

“No, John, just, no.”

*****

It is nearly midnight when Sherlock returns to Baker Street. He glances up at the second floor windows as he climbs out of the cab. Dark.

He had hoped John would still be awake. It had been a long day, and John had been exhausted from several days of investigations on their latest case and not enough sleep. John requires more sleep than Sherlock so it was not difficult to convince him to stay behind for this day. And the darkness lingers still.

John was still asleep when Sherlock set out in the morning. He took John’s mobile to Mrs. Hudson so he could check up on John but not disturb him if he happened to be asleep. He’d called four times during the day, only to be told that John was asleep. When at nine in the evening he was told that John had eaten a salad for dinner and fallen asleep on the sofa, Sherlock began to worry, but it was another three hours before he wrapped up the case with Lestrade and headed home.

Mrs. Hudson peeks out her door when he turns the key and steps inside.

“Haven’t heard a peep from him since you last called.”

“Do you think he’s ill?” Sherlock asks in barely a whisper.

“I checked for fever just after dinner. He was sleepy, but he seemed fine otherwise.”

“Thank you for watching over him today, Mrs, Hudson.”

“I was happy to do it, Sherlock. Here’s John’s phone.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” she whispers, patting his arm.

Sherlock climbs the seventeen steps, avoiding the one that creaks and enters the darkened flat. He closes and locks both access doors and softly sighs. He is glad to be home.

Dropping his scarf and long coat over John’s chair, navigating by the dim light from the street lamps outside their window, Sherlock approaches the sofa without a sound and drops to one knee.

John lies on his side, curled into himself and in a deep sleep. Sherlock gently kisses his forehead, his lips lingering long enough to satisfy himself that John is not feverish. Unwilling to wake him just yet, Sherlock stands and strides down the hall toward the bedroom. After pulling back the sheet and duvet, and fluffing the pillows, he sheds his clothes, dropping them in a pile on the floor and steps into the loo to shower.

Ten minutes later, clad only in his red dressing gown, he pads barefoot down the hall to the sofa where John still sleeps. Dropping to one knee, for several long minutes he just watches John sleep. He never tires of this, whether John is aware or not. He especially loves watching John’s unguarded moments. Like now, as he slumbers.

Finally unable to fight off sleep any longer, Sherlock stands, lifts John’s small body into his arms, and carries him to their bed. John doesn’t stir when Sherlock lays him gently on the cool sheets. He moans softly as Sherlock gently removes his t-shirt and flannels, then curls up on his side when Sherlock draws the sheet and duvet around him.

Sherlock drops his dressing gown beside the bed and slips in next to his love. He stretches out on his right side, facing John. Immediately, John reaches for him in his sleep, uncurling his body as he does so and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock gathers John against him so their bodies touch from chest to hips. John responds at once, bending one leg and slipping it between Sherlock’s and tightly against his groin.

Sherlock covers John’s lips with his own for their last kiss of the day.

“Sherlock,” John whispers against his mouth.

“Yes, John, I’m here,” he whispers back, tightening his arms around his love.

“Missed you.”

“I missed you, too.”

In the dim light of their bedroom, Sherlock can see that John’s eyes are still closed. He smiles against John’s mouth. “Are you okay, John?”

“Mmmmm.”

“Is that a ’yes’?”

“Mmmmm.”

“Sherlock?” John murmurs his name barely above a whisper.

“Yes, John?”

“Warm.”

John shivers; Sherlock holds him tighter.

“Mmmmmm,” John murmurs deep in his throat, a hint of a smile against Sherlock’s mouth. He sighs from somewhere near his toes and tilts his hips tighter against Sherlock’s.

“Warm,” he whispers once before drifting off.

“Warm,” Sherlock whispers back, letting himself go under.

*****

Sherlock fills a china bowl with steaming vegetable risotto just delivered from Angelo’s, snags a spoon and a tall glass of water and heads for the sitting room where John Watson has settled in his chair, staring into the flames in the fireplace.

With his toe, Sherlock nudges the small table off to the side of the chair and sets the bowl and glass on it. Folding his long legs and straddling John’s, he settles his bum on John’s knees.

John stares straight ahead, as though his view of the fireplace is not at all blocked by Sherlock’s body. 

During the first three days of the ’darkness,’ when John was lucid for some part of each day, Sherlock left ’finger foods’ on the kitchen counters and on the table in the sitting room and he’d often see John chewing on carrot sticks and celery stalks, and slices of apples, nuts and berries. John always found the small squares of chocolate hidden under the fruit. Soon after he ate only the chocolate. 

Now, day five, this day, John isn’t eating at all. 

“Time to eat, John,” he says, keeping his voice low and calm. 

Sherlock holds the bowl against his chest and fills the spoon with the risotto. Hoping this will not be the time that John refuses to be fed, Sherlock holds the spoon gently against John’s mouth. And waits. John continues to stare through him. 

Sherlock balances the bowl on the arm of the chair and presses his left palm to John’s cheek.

“Please, John?”

Nothing.

When the darkness comes for John Watson, it comes suddenly and with a vengeance, stealing away all that is John. Sherlock is intimately familiar with both his own and John’s bouts of depression. He helps even though his own darkness threatens at the edges of his psyche while watching John succumb to his. He cannot let it take hold when John needs him most.

“John? Please? Would you eat..for me?”

He pushes the edge of the spoon firmly against John’s lips once more. Finally, John’s jaw slackens and he allows the spoon to pass his lips. Sherlock lets out a breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding and watches John chew....once, twice, three times, four....and then swallow.

“Good, John, very good.” He leans forward and gently kisses John’s temple. There is no reaction; John’s eyes stare at something only he can see; his body is absolutely still. Only the slow blink of his eyes and the soft whiffling of his slightly congested nose tells Sherlock that his love is somewhere in the depths of those vacant eyes. Somewhere. 

John allows several more spoonfuls to pass his lips before Sherlock is satisfied that he has had the minimum amount to keep his strength. Anything more is a gift. When John refuses to open his mouth, Sherlock glances down at the bowl and realizes John has eaten nearly half of its contents. He finishes the rest himself and places the bowl on the table.

*****

Sherlock scoots his bum farther up John’s legs and picks up the water glass from the table. He places the rim of the glass against John’s mouth and tips it until the water touches his lips. He smiles for the first time in days when John’s upper lip curls over the rim, his head tips slightly forward and he empties half the glass without pause. Sherlock can’t help but be cautiously optimistic at this tiny gesture.

With his long fingers framing John’s face, Sherlock lifts John’s head to stare into his deep blue eyes. There is no recognition there and Sherlock’s heart plummets to his toes. His sigh fills the room.

“John. Please come back to me.”

From his shirt pocket, Sherlock pulls a small square of chocolate, unwraps it and presses it against John’s lips. It disappears into his mouth, but John doesn’t chew it. Sherlock leans forward and captures John’s mouth, covering it with his own. He smells the rich aroma, gently pushes his tongue past his lips to taste the melting chocolate and John does not react to the intrusion. Sherlock needs this, it’s the only way he knows to be close to the man he loves with a desperation that fills his entire being.

Minutes later, when Sherlock removes himself from the chair and John, he is immediately chilled. While Sherlock clears away the dishes and stores the leftover risotto in the fridge, he notices that John returns to staring into the nearly dark fireplace.

Sherlock locks the flat doors for the night, turning off the lights and securing the screen in front of the fire. For several long moments he watches John, and even though John is just a few steps away, Sherlock aches with loneliness. It’s selfish, he knows, but he cannot feel otherwise.

Finally, he crosses the short distance to stand in front of John and holds out his hands. When John does not respond, Sherlock bends to takes his hands and pulls him to his feet. With an arm around John’s shoulders, Sherlock guides him along the hall toward their bedroom.

Holding one of John’s hands, Sherlock draws him into the bathroom. After putting just a spot of toothpaste on John’s brush, he places it within reach on the back of the toilet tank. He runs the shower until the water is just right, strips John of his jeans, t-shirt and pants, then undresses himself and steps into the shower, slowly guiding John in after him. John stands with his eyes closed, the water cascading over his head.

Sherlock soaps himself quickly, shampoos his hair and rinses down, then guides John back under the spray to warm him up. Sherlock shampoos John’s hair, and using a bottle of liquid bath wash, he liberally soaps John’s skin with his hands. With an arm around John to steady him, and his gaze intent on his face, Sherlock tenderly washes John’s intimate area with one soapy hand. John shivers suddenly and drops his head against Sherlock’s chest. Seconds later, John groans and Sherlock notices the yellow water that circles, then disappears down the drain.

John starts to shake and Sherlock realizes there must be some small bit of awareness returning. He gathers John against his body, hugging him tightly. “It’s okay, John. It’s okay.”

While holding onto John, Sherlock reaches outside the shower to snag John’s toothbrush. For the first time in three days, John allows him to brush his teeth. Just barely. Sherlock blocks John’s nose with his fingers to force him to breathe through his mouth and manages to manoeuvre him under the spray. His technique is mildly successful with a minimum of struggle and a bit of coughing.

By the time Sherlock gets John out of the shower, and dries them both, it’s nearly midnight, he’s exhausted and John is barely on his feet. Sherlock gently tucks John under the bedding, piles on two extra blankets from their cupboard and burrows under with him.

Wrapping his arms around John’s ribs, Sherlock pulls him to the center of the bed, tucking his sandy head beneath his chin, and against his chest. Splaying his left hand on John’s bum, he pulls his love tightly against him and tangles his long legs around John’s to keep him close. He hears the whisper of a sigh in the soft silence of the bedroom and as he drifts into sleep, he’s sure he feels John’s fingers against his chest.

*****

Sherlock wakes as the first light of morning peeks through their window, but it’s not the coming dawn that wakes him. He’s aware of soft breathing against his mouth and a slow, feathering touch on his collarbone.

’Please...’ he asks as he slowly opens his eyes.

John is awake, his face just inches away, his blue eyes focused toward, but beyond Sherlock’s face. His eyelids flutter down and seconds later open again, then close as though he struggles to keep them open. It’s John’s finger that is gently caressing his skin.

“John,” Sherlock whispers and smiles at his love’s sleepy face. He cradles John’s head with his hand and draws him closer, covering John’s mouth with his own.

John makes a tiny, throaty hum and opens his eyes. Sherlock holds his breath, his heart pounding, and watches John’s deep blue eyes search for him, and slowly, slowly focus on his face.

“John,” he says, his voice rough and shaky. “John.”

“Sh-sher-lock,” John says in a sleepy whisper, reaching for him, his hands holding fast to Sherlock’s shoulders.

“I-I c-couldn’t f-find you.” His voice breaks.

And so does Sherlock’s heart.

“You were lost for a little while, John.” Sherlock tells him.

John’s eyes fill and Sherlock realizes his own tears are trickling down his cheeks at the sight of the beautiful face before him.

“W-where were you, Sh-Sherlock?”

“I was right here, John. Right beside you all the time.”

“I c-couldn’t see you.”

“I know, my love, but I could see you.” Sherlock struggles to keep himself from falling apart. As tightly as he can, he wraps his arms and legs around John’s body. John pushes against him, as though his proximity is not close enough.

“I couldn’t find you,” John repeats, fear evident in his small voice. “What were you doing?”

Sherlock holds onto John’s body so fiercely that John gasps.

“Waiting for you.”


End file.
